


Nothing You Can Give

by Roselightfairy



Series: Finding a Voice: OCs and Extras [8]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Family, Gen, Mirkwood, Siblings, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, War, the fact that that's a tag...sigh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29842344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: In Mirkwood, there is little comfort to be found in the deepest days of the Shadow. After Legolas and several of his companions seek it in the wine cellar, his older sister finds him to offer whatever solace she can give.Of course, it can never be enough.
Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf & Original Female Character(s), Thranduil (Tolkien) & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Finding a Voice: OCs and Extras [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2054061
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Nothing You Can Give

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no idea whether or not this story will be enjoyable to you if you don't have familiarity with the other stories in this series, but if you haven't read any of my work before, the main important relationship is that Laerwen is Legolas's older sister.
> 
> Thanks to DeHeerKonijn for the conversation that prompted the central image in this story, and to UnnamedElement for the prompt that made me actually write it. <3 Also, sorry I keep writing about alcohol as a coping mechanism. I’ll stop eventually, probably.

“Laerwen.”

Thousands of years since she was Nimloth’s student – thousands of years, a war and a siege and a command between; she _outranks_ Nimloth now, in fact – and still her name in that voice is enough to send her back to her untaught youth, standing at shamed attention under the eyes of her betters. She does what she can now to scrape herself together, to pull her earned status around her as armor, but it is not enough to hide the truth that she has – once again – failed in Nimloth’s first, most crucial lesson. “Yes?”

This late at night, this deep in the forest, little starlight penetrates the tangled boughs of the trees. They navigate by song and touch and shadow – but the faint shine of Nimloth’s eyes against the shades of black is enough to convey her censure. “If you cannot mind your current task,” Nimloth says, “doubt not that I will send you home without delay.”

It is an empty threat – no one leaves the patrol alone, particularly outside of the boundary lines – but Nimloth’s aim was to shame her and in that she has succeeded. “Of course,” she says stiffly, presses sharp fingernail crescents into the exposed pads of her fingers. “Forgive me.”

But even Nimloth’s command is not enough – not tonight.

Laerwen should have learned by now never to volunteer for duty when Legolas’s archery unit is out on long forays – and yet somehow she always forgets, when he is home and safe, how acutely the worry scrapes at her mind on nights like these. They are scheduled to return tonight, and so her thoughts are not with her companions at their borders but traveling far away into the night, seeking to listen – though he is too far away to hear – for the distinctive note of her brother’s spirit.

Nimloth does not reprimand her again – but not, surely, for lack of wanting. Laerwen can practically hear her rehearsing it in her head – the report she will give to Laerwen’s father, the points she will make one by one: _inattention to her surroundings; unprepared to give orders; a burden on the rest of the patrol_. But it will be thanks to fortune alone if this reprimand is the worst punishment Laerwen receives. Their foes are less forgiving than Nimloth or even Thranduil, and if harm should come to any one of them, Laerwen will bear the blame for the rest of her days.

But this night is kind to them. Their sweep is swift and calm; they exchange brief words with Ruanna and her companions moving to replace them – and then they are back safely within the halls and on their way to report to the king.

Laerwen can only hope Legolas has had the same fortune.

Thranduil is waiting for them in the council chambers, seated alone in his chair at the end of the long table, but he rises when they enter. “Nimloth,” he says. “And Laerwen. You have a report for me?”

Laerwen cedes the reporting to Nimloth, letting her eyes wander around the room for any sign that Conuingoll – Legolas’s commander – has already come to report. The table is still scattered with the debris of paper and ink from their last attempts to coordinate some kind of defense – from their usual defeated conclusion that they are simply too few. A scattered sheaf still litters the floor beneath the table – the pile of diagrams that Himlir swept off the table in anger yesterday, that no one has yet bothered to clear away. But the space in front of Thranduil’s seat is empty.

She turns her eyes to her father, though his expression is inscrutable as always. She can glean nothing from him that he does not want to share – so it has been since her childhood, although he did not choose to hide as much from her then. She understands it better than she did in her youth – but now, when everything in her yearns to learn of her brother, she finds herself itching inside, using all her years of self-discipline not to squirm, not to break, not to demand that Nimloth finish speaking so she can hear – so she can learn –

Surely if there were bad news he would have told her before waiting for Nimloth’s report? Once she would have been certain of that answer, but now she cannot know. Too much roils behind his perfect shields: too many secrets he hides too well, even from her.

Nimloth’s report is brief, but still too long. She has scarcely fallen silent when Laerwen speaks up at last, unable to keep her peace any longer.

“My lord,” she ventures. “Adar. Has – have Conuingoll and the archers returned yet?”

“They have,” he says. “Maeglad brought their report to me, and he will share it with you, Nimloth. He awaits you in the adjoining chambers. Laerwen – come with me.”

He leaves no room for protest or question. Nimloth has scarcely nodded affirmation before he is sweeping between them, out the way they entered, and Laerwen nearly stumbles in her haste to catch him.

“Legolas,” she says. Curse her father and his opacity! “Is he returned? Is he well?”

He is not so cruel as to deny her that answer, at least. “As far as I am aware,” he says. “But there is something you ought to see.”

“As far as you are aware?” What precludes him from giving her a straight answer? They do not seem to be approaching the infirmary, or Legolas’s chambers, so that at least is a comfort, but – how dare he keep her waiting thus? “Did he report to you, or did he not?”

“He did not,” he says, and fear freezes the burn of Laerwen’s ire. “I have been told he is uninjured, but I have not yet seen him.” Even hushed, his voice still resonates in the halls – not enough ivy grows up the walls yet to mask the echoing effect of stone. He makes a sharp turn into the kitchens, of all places, but before Laerwen can wonder he is leading her through the hall of cooks at kettles of stew, past the rows of pantries, and down the long staircase that leads to the cellars. “I can give you no explanation – only show you what I have seen.”

The sound of their footsteps on the stone is still unnerving to Laerwen’s ears – so deep in their new-carved halls, the stone does not yet recognize them. These mountains are older by far than the eldest among them – among even the Silvan who have lived here since the world itself was young – and she wonders how long it will take to attune it to the touch of their soles, the whispers of elven hands along the stone walls of the staircase, the cadence of their speech. How long before the mountains will know them as friends and kindred.

Too long, doubtless – and yet, not long enough, for her heart aches already for the open woods and the comfort of the trees.

Laerwen draws her shoulders back against the press of stone, holds herself defiantly tall though no one but her father is here to see her – what, would she tell the stone itself that she is not afraid? But it does weigh about her, a pressure that throbs in her neck and ears, and the scent of green things is nearly swallowed up in dust and damp and –

And something lighter and sharper, the sour-sweet tang of grape, wood of barrels. The wine cellars.

She casts a sharp look at her father – wasted on his back, but he will know. He always does. He does not turn to acknowledge her, instead lifting the latch to the communal wine cellar and pushing open the door.

She follows him in and through – wending his way among the maze of barrels, his path unerring despite the meandering of the journey. The cellar is empty but for Galion, sleeping beside a barrel as he is wont to do on his free nights, so soundly that he does not stir at their approach. But Thranduil makes his way past the barrel-hatch, towards the smaller door at the very back.

Laerwen does not enter their personal wine cellar often – the one where they store their best wines, those reserved typically for anniversary feasts and the occasional diplomatic guest – but her father comes down here once a year on the day of her mother’s departure, and she and Siril helped themselves to some of their finest for a celebration of their wedding anniversary. But to her surprise, when her father reaches the small door, it is not latched as always – no, the key protrudes from the lock and the door itself is ajar.

“What” – Laerwen starts, but her father pushes it open and she sees what.

This room is smaller than the main cellar, a set of shelves lined with bottles rather than stacks of barrels – or rather, shelves _typically_ lined with bottles. It is more of a smattering, now: the top shelf with the finest wines is still untouched, but below it there are breaks in the lines, gaps of bare wood, perfect clear circles in the layer of dust on the shelf – it speaks, perhaps, to how little they have found to celebrate that this cellar is so unused.

But it is not so today. The missing bottles have relocated to the floor, to side tables, to the grips of the nine young elves scattered over the floor, sleeping so soundly that not one of them stirs at Laerwen and Thranduil’s entry.

Oh.

For the first time, her father looks back at her.

“They reported to Maeglad,” he murmurs, “and when I sought out Legolas, I found him nowhere and the key missing.”

Legolas. But he is not – Laerwen scans the room again: Damion, Duvaineth, Estinnu – these are Legolas’s companions, yes, but Legolas is nowhere in sight.

The sharp lurch in her stomach nearly staggers her. Where is – but no. No, her father would not have lied to her if he truly believed Legolas injured or unwell. He would _not_. And anyway, no one else could have let them into the cellar; only Legolas knows where the key is hidden. They will have to find it a new hiding place now, she supposes, and then almost laughs at the absurdity of that thought. What is the use of having such a cellar, after all, if not for this?

“The report,” she murmurs, “will you tell me at last what they said?”

“Conuingoll was injured,” says her father, his own voice hushed. On the floor, one of the young warriors stirs, but he is only shifting in his sleep, curling tighter into the elleth beside him like young woodland animals. “Only a graze, it seemed, but the others had to carry hir home. Ecthoron suspects the wound was poisoned.”

Bile wells up in Laerwen’s throat, and yet when she speaks her voice sounds ruthlessly steady, detached and echoing in her own head. “How does ze fare?”

“Ze lives,” says Thranduil, and the unspoken _for now_ echoes in the small space.

“Who is next in succession?” The words are sharp-edged and bitter in her mouth, acid in the cuts they leave behind. Is it better or worse to have such cruel conversations standing over these sleeping elves, these poor youths who have seen too much already in their short lives? And yet here or in the study or in the throne room, they talk of nothing else – never, never anything else; the language she and her father speak now is the language of command – and this, though couched in such language, is the heart of the conversation.

“Bellassel,” he answers. Legolas’s immediate superior.

“Ah.”

“Indeed,” murmurs her father. He takes one step forward, leaning down to gently ease a dangerously tilting bottle from the nearest hand – Bellassel’s, in fact. Hir hand falls to the side, loose and open without the bottle, but still ze does not stir. Ze will wake up commander of the unit, and whether that position is temporary or permanent none of them yet knows, but for now hir face is slack in sleep, brow smooth with wine-induced oblivion. Young, too young – all of them too young.

“Then Legolas did not seek you out?” she says.

“No.” He does not point out that he has already told her as much, staring instead down at the bottle in his hand and tilting it absently from side to side. Its remaining contents singsong faintly against the clay like a lullaby.

Laerwen lets her eyes sweep once more over the children – warriors, yes, but so scarcely removed from childhood, so young – some sprawled out over odds and ends on the floor, others nestled together like rabbits in a warren, numbering them with practiced eyes. Nine, yes. If Conuingoll is in the infirmary, and Legolas is unaccounted for, and their patrol contained a dozen –

It means he did not leave alone.

It is not right to call Eleniel Legolas’s shadow – they shadow one another, rather, always linked in an ever-shifting pattern: the sight of a fish in the shallows, indistinguishable from the light of its own reflection. They will be promoted together in the morning, and Laerwen can only pray that when the time comes to choose a leader between the two of them, there will still be cause to choose.

“I will find them,” she murmurs. She knows his hiding places, where he goes when he craves solitude. Tonight – tonight he should not be alone. None of them should. “The rest – their families” –

“I will see them home,” promises her father. “Find your brother.” He stares down at the clay bottle in his hand, then straightens and hands it to her, a wordless offering.

She takes it – half full. The scent wafting from the top is familiar and for a moment she is not in this damp cellar but out under the trees, laughing, watching the red splash into her mother’s goblet – yes, this was one of her favorites; Laerwen wonders if she has found anything like it overseas, wonders if she too remembers those days beneath the stars –

She blinks her vision clear. “Of course,” she says. If her father has promised to bring the others home safely, she need worry no longer about the other families – only her own.

She is nearly out the door when his voice stops her. “Laerwen.”

She turns back, poised to depart, to see him looking back at her – directly at her, his eyes clouded with memory and sorrow. “I would have spared you this, if I could,” he says softly. “Both of you.”

She swallows hard. This is why they speak the way they do – the language they share is a shield for both of them, the only protection they can muster from moments like this when the truth lies sharp and shining between them like a bare blade and emotion rises in her throat, edging out sense. She tightens her grip on the neck of the bottle, and all she can say is, “I know.”

That shining expanse between them trembles like the still surface of a pond anticipating a shattering – one more moment, another – and then the contact breaks into hundreds of ripples and she turns to go.

Behind her, she can hear the gentle fabric-on-skin shuffle of her father gathering the first of the warriors into his arms.

* * *

Legolas is easy to find.

He does this often – few in the Greenwood can match him for stealth, and if he truly wished to hide Laerwen doubts even she could find him. Siril, perhaps. But for all that he so frequently seeks an escape from companionship, it is rare indeed that Legolas conceals himself without wishing to be found.

She finds him in the first place she looks – a little clearing outside of the halls but within the protective boundary of their guard. Legolas knows not to venture outside of their protection even in his desire for solitude. The light from their halls casts a soft glow into the trees – enough illumination for her to spot his silhouette, upright in the crook of his favorite tree, his legs dangling, one arm around another elf draped against his side.

“Legolas,” she says quietly.

He displays no surprise at her approach. “Laerwen.”

She cannot make out his face clearly but finds herself scanning for the telltale shine of tears. Nothing – not that she can see, anyway. “May I join you?”

He gestures with one hand in passive welcome.

“Hold this, then.” His branch is low enough that she can pass the bottle up to him – uncorked, she would not risk spilling it when she climbs. He passes it under his nose while she hoists herself up into the tree. Does he know this was their mother’s favorite? It is another pang to her heart that he will never know those memories that the scent holds for her, but she schools her face into long-practiced calm as she settles in beside him.

They sit in quiet for some moments, the sound of Eleniel’s steady breathing washing over them both like lapping waves. Legolas steals a glance at Laerwen; she spots the flash of motion in the corner of her eye, but she does not look back. He will talk in his own time.

“Adar,” he says at last.

“Mmm?”

“Is he angry?”

That question still hurts – that knowledge of yet another set of memories stolen from Legolas before he was ever able to make them. She does not know if Legolas means angry at him for disappearing instead of reporting, or for taking the key to the wine cellar, but either way the answer is the same. “No,” she sighs. “No, not at you.”

“Ah.” Beside her Legolas sags, as though the thought of a fight was the only thing keeping him upright. He stares down into the bottle he still holds, but makes no move to sip.

“Let me have that.” She pries it from his fingers; he lets it go with some surprise, as though not realizing that he must release his hold in order for her to take it. “It is only fair you leave some for the rest of us.”

The attempt at humor lands like a thrown rat, a dull, ungraceful thud; Legolas’s forced laugh is nothing more than a kindness. “Help yourself; I have had enough.”

It is clear he does not only mean the wine. In fact, his voice is too clear, his motions too steady, to mean the wine at all.

She takes a draught instead of answering, lets the sweetness play across her tongue along with the memory of the happier times Legolas has never known. “I know,” she murmurs. “I know you have, and I am sorry for it.”

He does not respond; nor does he look over at her, but keeps his gaze fixed in his own lap, one hand fussing with a hole in his tunic. It is not a hole, she realizes now, but a slash – the fabric cut cleanly as by a blade. Her stomach lurches and she nearly drops the bottle. “What is that?”

“What do you mean?”

It is all she can do not to seize the fabric herself, as she would have done when he was a child; she restrains herself to a tight gesture instead. “Are you injured?”

“Oh, this.” He lifts the flap of fabric aside to reveal a bandage over his hip, white against the night. “It is nothing – just a shallow slash. And not poisoned,” he forestalls her, “It has been seen to already, and Tinthariel said there was no need to fear.” He sighs, lets the fabric fall again. “I know my duty, Laerwen; I would not risk depriving us of another warrior.”

The bitterness of his words mingles with the aftertaste of the wine into something sour and heavy. “That is not” –

Untrue. It is not untrue, though it is not the whole truth, either. She falls silent instead of finishing.

“But it is,” he insists. “I am in no mood for comforting lies tonight.”

“Good,” she says, “for I am in no mood to spin them.” She lifts the bottle to her lips again, lets her legs swing. She lingers over the sip, seeking to arrange the words correctly in her mind. “It is truer than I wish it were,” she says at last. “Truer than we all wish. But it is not the whole truth of who you are – who you all are.”

“I know that!”

The words come out with surprising violence, and for a moment they both glance to Eleniel beside him – but even if Legolas has not imbibed heavily tonight, she must have, for she does not stir. Legolas sighs and pulls her closer into his side, steadying them both on the branch.

“I know that,” he repeats, a whisper this time. “I know that no one wishes it were this way, but I just – I do not need reassurance tonight, Laerwen.”

It hurts to nod, to subside – hurts with the dull ache of a slow internal bleed. Is this how their father feels all the time, helpless in the face of a situation for which he can do nothing? She would throw herself in front of any blow for Legolas, she would take any amount of pain to ensure he would feel no more in his life, but – this is the hardest of all, to sit here and watch him ache and do nothing to stop it. “What do you need, then?”

“Nothing you can give,” he says heavily.

There is nothing she can say to that. All she can do is sit beside him, letting quiet fall between them again, and wish with all her heart that she could.


End file.
